


Feathers of Ruby

by bluetoast



Series: Birds of a Feather [24]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Deaf Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 15:56:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1516430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluetoast/pseuds/bluetoast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>September, 1994. Dean knows the exact distance from the tips of his toes to the floor when he's stretched out, upside down on the high bar. Knowing that does little good after a low blood sugar attack destroys his balance and the floor greets his abrupt arrival by twisting his ankle. So on the day after, Dean contemplates things like distance and the life of a gymnast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feathers of Ruby

It seemed to Dean that the most fundamental thing to know in gymnastics was the distance between your body and the floor. Knowing where the floor was in connection with everything was vital – the floor was the only thing that was guaranteed _not_ to move. Vaults and pommel horses could sink, rings could snap, bars could fall – the floor and the floor alone was constant.

The floor was a gymnast's friend and foe. On those dismounts and landings where one's feet stick to it like glue and offer no hint of a step or shudder, it was your great partner. A missed catch, a slip on a pommel – and the ground would be there to remind you that you were human. On a floor routine itself the relationship was an odd one. Little spots to help and others to hinder, along with a thick line to remind the gravity defying gymnast that there were boundaries that must be held – breaking them could be as dangerous as a fall. 

Dean knew his need to know exactly how far down the ground was might be seen as a little odd. Most gymnasts didn't know the exact distance between one's foot and the ground when balanced on the high bar - sixteen feet and two point one two seven ten-thousandths of an inch. Give or take a tenth. It was sort of a comfort in knowing that on bar and rings, even if he was holding on by his finger tips, the floor was still bit of a drop. Knowing your feet wouldn't brush the ground was a comfort.

He still didn't know how the girls could judge the exact time to swing their legs up to avoid the floor on the uneven bars. 

The floor was the constant. It did not move and it would remain right where you left it. 

Everything else was a variable. The length of a swing, the arch of a back, the height of a dismount and the speed at which you could run. And that was only part of it. 

One of the great differences in women's and men's gymnastics was that women were usually done with their professional career by age twenty. Twenty was considered the beginning of most men's. At the exalted age of fifteen, Dean knew that the Atlanta Games in two years was a minor possibility – his Games would be Sydney. 

Leaning back against the sturdy post of the front porch, Dean sighed in relaxation. He could see the kids across the street playing tag or something similar and if he could have, he might have gotten up and joined them. He looked down at his left ankle, resting on a thin pillow in front of him. A minor sprain, doctor's orders were to stay off of it for the weekend and ease back into his gymnastics regimen. He closed his eyes and tightened his hold on the box of Black Cherry Jell-O. The whole thing could have been avoidable.

Knowing how far down the floor was from the top of the high bar was absolutely useless to know when your arms suddenly give out on you and the constant floor seems to come out of nowhere. It's not like his eating habits were bad. It'd just been a busy day yesterday and somewhere between Geometry and the gym, the important afternoon snack was missed. It wasn't that he didn't forget to pack the snack – he was in a hurry and had forgotten.

Said snack was now cupped in his palm and he was lazily watching the September morning drift past him. He opened his eyes, licked his index finger and stuck it into the jello powder. When he put his finger back into his mouth to suck off the mixture, the strong taste of cherry, half sweet, half tart exploded in his mouth with the unmistakable sugary undertone. 

Dean already felt better. 

Stupid low-blood sugar attacks. 

The doctor said he _should_ outgrow them once he was an adult. It was another complication brought on by his childhood malnourishment. He was nearly five years free, and still – things from the dark part of his life haunted him. Dean never understood the food thing. Not that any of the abuse made sense in his mind, but the food seemed to make the least of all of it. He took another dose of black cherry sugar and grimaced. The nightmare was over, he knew it was over – but Dean could never completely forget. 

In truth, he didn't want to forget. 

Brushing his fingers off on his arm, he set the box on the table next to him and picked up his Intro to Lit textbook, opened it to the story he had to read, 'Everyday Use' by Alice Walker. He retrieved his snack and settled into the assignment. At least it was Friday and it would be easier to follow the doctor's orders. Dean glanced at his watch, and then got back to work. He and a bunch of other kids from school were going to go see _The Next Karate Kid_ this afternoon. A theater here in Potomac was going to show it with the closed captions. 

Sure, it looked sort of silly – but Dean had to admit, Hilary Swank was sort of hot. Not entirely his type, but she was cute.

*  
Gabriel found the weight of the gold-colored armor unfamiliar as he adjusted the clasp on the breastplate and then looked at himself in the mirror. He's sort of expected his older brother Michael to throw a fit when the plans for the Apocalypse got derailed. Instead, the archangel had decided to mount a direct assault on Hell itself and end a lot of suffering. 

“You think this plan is foolhardy.” A voice said from behind him and he turned to look at the angel in silver colored armor. 

“Not foolhardy, Castiel. I believe the term I would say is random. And yes, I am annoyed with Michael for not letting me have a smiting party in 1938 in Germany. He was on the invite list.” Gabriel shook his head. “This is going to be a time consuming battle, you know that, don't you?” He picked up his helmet. “And a lot of us aren't coming home.”

“Sacrifices must be made.” The angel stood at attention, the barest hint of a frown on his face. “I assume you have advised your pagan friends to stay out of the way.”

“My pagan friends are not stupid. With the exception of Balder, but then, he's just an ass.” He took a breath and put on his scabbard. “When this is all over, Cas – I'm taking you on a tour of the world so you can see just what it is that I love about this planet so much.”

“I love it to, Gabriel, it is our Father's...”

“But you, like many angels, Castiel, fail to see what is really there.” He picked up his helmet and wrapped an arm around the lesser angel's shoulder. “Come on, my little Chuck Norris, we're going on a demon hunt.” 

“My name is Castiel, not Chuck Norris.” The angel let himself be led away.

“Remind me to tell you all about Chuck Norris when we get home. You, me, a movie theater an endless bowls of good food.” He grinned and they started down the corridor. 

“How can you be so flippant when we are about to storm Hell itself?”

“It's my coping mechanism.” He put his helmet on, and his smile abruptly vanished. “Don't smite everything you see, Castiel. Some of those poor souls down in Hell got there on a road of good intentions.”

*

Dean looked up from his book, not certain what had caused the disturbance. He frowned and took another taste of jello, frowning. Maybe he was just imagining things again. He shook his head head and went back to reading.


End file.
